


Exchange Rate

by salamanderinspace



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Captain Phasma, Dirty Birds Doing Dirty Work, F/F, Female-Centric, First Order, First Order Shennanigans, Lesbian Phasma, Lesbians in Space, POV Female Character, Playful Romanticism of an Assault, Rare Pairings, Roughhousing, power games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-19 12:58:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7362352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamanderinspace/pseuds/salamanderinspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bazine knows how to build lasting relationships with her clients.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

There is a dark alley twenty paces from the Outlander Club where Bazine Netal waits for a mid-night rendevous. Tonight, the talkers are out: loud, oblivious, and drunk. This is convenient. Bazine Netal is in the business of overhearing things. She is currently listening to two Twi'leks engage in noisy friction at the opposite end of the plaza. Nearby, a deathstick dealer slurs sleezy come-ons as it slinks around for potential clients. Bazine historically does her best and simplest work in spaces like this. She is a merchant of indiscretion, and people come here with the express intention to be indiscreet.

There is no such space on the Finalizer, so the illustrious Captain Phasma has made a trip all the way to Coruscant. While it is remarkable that a Captain of the First Order would come, in person, to take a report from a freelance operative, it is, perhaps, the safest way to make such a delicate exchange. Bazine has information. She holds power in the crook of her poison-tipped fingers--power in the form of intelligence. She's promised this power to the Captain for, in Bazine's opinion, a very fair price. _I could have asked no price more fair,_ she thinks, with a smirk.

At precisely the time they'd arranged to meet, Bazine watches the Captain approach. She scans the Captain for weapons. In keeping with the theme of discretion, Phasma has come in the plainclothes provided to off-duty stormtroopers: a dark shirt and jacket, matching slacks, and regulation stiff-ankled boots (polished to a shine.) She's been stripped of marks of rank and regime. No insignia or access cylinders give her away. A plain blue command-style cap conceals her short, ruffled blond hair. She's standing tall, with a kind of relaxed grace; authority trails behind her like the cape she would wear in uniform. 

Bazine wants to think of Phasma as striking. Bazine feels a little like a bell that's just been struck. There is a distinct and pervasive ringing. When the Captain speaks, Bazine almost misses her low, husky voice:

"Do you have it?"

Bazine withdraws the holodisc from a band in her legging, flashing a glimpse of bare thigh in the process. Phasma watches this action, unabashedly crooking an eyebrow.

"Lovely," Phasma purrs. "Excellent work."

Bazine accepts the praise because it is accurate. The job was some of her best work. She'd had to sweet-talk a Kyuzo, a distinctly unsweet fellow whose poor manners served him best in the galaxy's furthest outposts. The end-product was worth it, however: she'd located the fugitive the First Order sought. "I take great pride in a job well done," Bazine answers Phasma, accent thick to conceal her eagerness. "Do you have payment?" When Phasma nods and holds out one large, calloused hand, Bazine's heart races. Bazine deposits the holodisc in the Captain's palm. 

"The credits will be deposited directly into your account." Phasma gives Bazine a look--eyes panning head to toe. "I have no other tasks for you at this time."

Bazine returns Phasma's stare. "That's a shame," she murmurs. For a silence moment they wrestle with the mutual knowledge that there is more to this transaction. They aren't finished, and yet, the Captain turns to leave.

"Wait!" Phasma halts in the middle of a step. She turns slowly back to the mercenary, who is stepping closer, so close, close enough to press her body against Phasma's tall frame. Bazine lifts a hand and drags her finger-tips along the edge of the blue command-cap. The gloves on her hands conceal weapons-grade spines; she must be cautious. Bazine can't resist raising a tentative knuckle to graze Phasma's cheek. 

Suddenly, Phasma grabs hold of Bazine's wrist, gripping the lethal gauntlet with firm caution. She squeezes hard. Almost hard enough to bruise. 

"Keep your poison away from me, spy." Phasma catches Bazine off guard, spinning her around with a deft twist. There's a fast, rough negotiation of balance, and the First Order soldier has a size advantage on the slender mercenary. Bazine finds her elbows pressed against the brick wall in the alley, knees bent and back arched to keep from grating her chest on the stone. Phasma has one hand on the back of Bazine's throat, holding her in place. Bazine can feel the overwhelming strength in her grip. She imagines the woman sparring with Stormtroopers, furious in combat, ready to lay her adversaries down and keep them down.

Bazine lets out a sigh. It's partly a gasp and partly something vulgar. "You like this?" Phasma asks, pressing harder.

Bazine turns her head to the side. She shifts her weight from one high-heeled foot to the other. She's been slinking around long enough for her ankles to hurt from the height of the heel; she swallows the pain like an adder, swallowing a slippery rodent. She's grown accustomed to the pleasant burn of sublimated suffering. "I love your pet names for me," Bazine cooes. "And you _love_ my poison. I've observed." Arching a little, Bazine flexes to press into Phasma's hips. Without the high heels, she might not reach, but with them, they line up perfectly. Feeling Phasma's durasteel belt buckle dig into her, Bazine pushes harder. Phasma has wide hips. Bazine hears her breath come fast and sharp as their bodies connect and grind together.

"Well, that is what we pay you for," Phasma replies. "To observe."

They've flirted before. Now, they are one the verge of crossing a line into something more, something equal to the messy liaison shared by the twi'leks on the other side of the plaza. Bazine has other plans. She slowly reaches up to Phasma's hand on her back and moves it down over her breast. No longer held in place, she rises slowly, hypnotically. She stands and moves into Phasma's embrace. She rests her back against the woman cupping her tits and takes one moment to savor the encounter. Only one.

"It's not all watching and tattling," Bazine muses. "I get into the action sometimes, too." She turns around and kisses Phasma on the mouth. It's a great kiss, much improved by the knowledge that she's wearing one of her less potent (but still venomous) cosmetics. Phasma drops. She hits the ground with a "thud," uninjured but sleeping deeply for an immeasurable hour. Bazine drags her behind heap of scrap-metal and does a quick, indulgent search of her person to locate the holodisc. She pockets it; this will give them an excuse to see each other again. 

As Bazine departs, the "click, click" of poison-tipped heels echoes on the duracrete. Bazine steps lightly. She waits until the crowd exiting the Club swells and deflates before slipping inside. Making straight for the casino, she accesses the subspace transceiver used by clients to transfer credits. She withdraws her payment and tips the accounting droid generously on her way out the kiosk. "I wasn't here," she tells them.

There are moments to draw attention to oneself: to seize it greedily and savor the respite between long stretches of life in the shadows. Mostly, however, a spy's life is finding ways to be invisible. Bazine sits at a table in the back of the club and resists hailing the service droid to put in a drink order. She bows her head and blends once more into the cacophony of the indiscreet.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phasma strikes back?

\--

"It's not your fault," the General declares. "What she did."

"I intend to destroy her."

"You needn't."

"I intend to."

"Be pragmatic. We'll make a plan to bring her in, but for now, stay focused." He turns dramatically toward the viewport, crossing his arms behind his back. "We need to secure the map."

\--

"Captain! We're receiving a communication."

Phasma approaches an array of officers seated at their work-stations. The technician speaking is young, practically a cadet, and her high voice filters meekly through the audio pickup in Phasma’s helmet. “What is it? Good news, I hope?”

"Yes, Captain. One of our operatives spotted the droid."

Phasma exhales a sigh of relief and gratitude. The ship has been bedlam for days while the higher-ups fret over a misplaced BB unit. For this reason, Phasma has taken to stalking Central Communications for incoming messages. She can’t make any plans or preparations until she knows where the next squadron will be deployed. “What planet?”

“Takodana. At Maz Kanata’s place.”

“Really?” Phasma is surprised; they don’t have reconnaissance permanently stationed there. "Which operative rang this in? A freelancer?"

"Actually," the young officer chirps, "sound like it's Bazine."

Phasma's heart squeezes shut. She is hit by the remembered sensation of waking up in a dirty alley. Empty pockets. Reprimands forthcoming. The feeling of powerlessness slides under Phasma's armour like a viscous glob of machine grease. It's _unclean._

Of course, Bazine Netal is in the right place at the right time to catch the golden goose in the galaxy’s worst wild goose chase. _How characteristic._ The only honest shock is that Netal found the gall to finally break radio silence. _Does she not know the severity of her crime?_ The Order had been able to locate Lor San Tekka without the ill-gotten intelligence of a sleazy, backworld spy--but not before the Resistance interfered. Now a map of vital strategic importance is in a droid, and that droid is in Bazine's wheelhouse. 

"Does she think that locating the droid redeems her to us?"

"I don't know, ma'am. Would you like me to send a message back?"

Phasma adjusts her pauldron. She carries two voices in her head at all times. There is the will of the Order and then there is the monster of her own desires. Very often these voices want the same thing. At the moment, both voices are screaming a duet so discordant, there is no hearing them. 

"Tell her to stay put," Phasma declares. "I'll brief Kylo Ren with the new intel." The subspace technician relaxes, glad this task will not fall to her. "He's likely to want to go personally to the recovery site. As will I."

\--

"You needn't worry about the credits she took," Ren hums, through his mask.

"That's not what the General said."

"You needn't worry about the General."

Phasma smiles, glowing a little under her own veil of alloy.

"Show her that she should fear you," Ren continues. "That this is your space and she is your guest. She lives or dies by your mercy."

"You think I should take her prisoner?"

"Do as you wish. You have my advice."

\--

Ren lands a squad right on top of the castle grounds. Phasma is tempted to join him in the fray, but she sticks to the plan and circles round to cut off escape at the small hangar between the woods and the sea. 

It's an open lot with no order or amenities. The scramble is evident. A wretched medley of spacers and scum are fleeing Kanata's oasis, trying to get off-world before Stormtrooper boots hit the ground. Few have succeeded, yet, though the landing stage is emptying out. There's no sign of the droid or FN-2187. A massive freighter sits in the center of the lot, bulky, powering up. Beside it, long and lean and casual as ever, waits Bazine Netal.

The cruel curve of her lips is a little colder, this time. Beneath a thin sheen of composure and contempt, Phasma sees panic. Netal's on edge. Her eyes dart nervously to and fro, missing Phasma but clearly hoping for...someone. There is a tension in the bones of her shoulders, sharpening her lines. Phasma takes a moment--just one--to admire that deadly sharpness. Legs for days lead to the devastating tilt of angular hips. Phasma has a half-mad impulse to march up to the sleek operative and slap the impression of a durasteel gauntlet into her face. Something about this thought is calming; it did not arise from the Order's agenda, and yet, does not conflict with it.

Phasma covers the distance in a few long strides. "Power down your vessel," she commands, smoothly.

Bazine spots the Captain just after the words are spoken. Her face betrays relief before turning, instantly, to a guarded expression. "Finally, you've arrived," she says, crossing her arms. "What kept you?"

"It took me some time to brush the dirt off," Phasma answers. She clutches her rifle in both hands. "I imagine that's a problem for everyone you encounter. Now power down your vessel and drop to the ground."

"Awww, no foreplay?"

"Of course not." Phasma gives up no ground. "You're a smart woman. You must have anticipated retribution."

At this point, a burbling groan issues from the depths of the ship. There is some barbaric language in it--one that Phasma, for the obvious reasons, doesn't speak. "What is that?"

"My bodyguard," Bazine purrs. Yet she looks doubtful. 

Phasma is without a contingency plan; she suddenly regrets landing without specific orders. The droid is priority, of course, as duty whispers in the back of her mind. But the best way to get it? And also, revenge? And more importantly, respect? Is there a way to wrest _that_ from the venomous viper?

There is too much liberty in the act of balancing conflicting objectives with immediate whims. Phasma considers how simple it would be to shoot Bazine and walk away. "What bodyguard?"

"I needed the extra muscle."

Phasma's look of skepticism is lost beneath her mask. "A hired hand? Or you seduced some chump so you wouldn't be alone when I came for you?"

"My charm wins me friends in all places." Her lips split into a fraction of sly grin. The expression hastily cools. "I am, perhaps, too winsome. Grummgar is very fond of me. I'm navigating the termination of this new relationship with some caution."

Phasma seethes. "Like you 'navigated the termination' of our relationship?"

"No!" Bazine looks taken aback. "That was..." She smiles. "That was meant as an overture."

A low, aching fury simmers, coating over Phasma's nerves. "You think this is a game? Cat and mouse?"

"Help me get out of here," Bazine suggests. "My poison's run out. I need an exit strategy. Help me, and I'll be the mouse, if you like."

"Did it ever occur to you that I _wouldn't_ like that? That I don't care for your game?"

Bazine stiffens, swelling as much as her slight frame will allow. Phasma thinks of a reptile, extruding its scaly (and venomous) hood. "I don't need you," Bazine hisses. "I have Grummgar in the palm of my hand."

Grummgar, the "bodyguard," groans another interjection from above. It's the same disconcerting alien language. Phasma surmises the gist: something along the lines of, "Darling, what the hell is keeping you?" 

Peering up the ship's ramp into a dusky, reeking cockpit, Phasma calls out. "Come out with hands raised! Prepare to surrender your ship to the First Order!"

A Dowutin standing three meters high and weighing in like a Happabore, if such were bipedal, crashes heavily down to disembark. It is clear that any justice visited upon Bazine must be executed outside the presence of this "bodyguard."

Phasma is, however, relieved when Grummgar introduces himself in Basic. He is impressively articulate. Phasma is surprised, and she censures herself for allowing prejudice to influence her assessment of a delicate situation. "Our paperwork is all in line," he snarls. "We've every right to work in these parts, as your people well know. How may we serve the Order?"

Evidently, Grummgar is both organized and willing to cooperate. "We're looking for a fugitive."

He gurgles bemusedly, curling and uncurling massive claws. "Good, I could use a government contract."

"You mistake me. We've no need of a hunter. We believe this person is on-world and we're raiding for them now. Have you seen a small BB unit, white and orange, accompanied by two humans?"

"Must have missed it," he answers, with sincerity.

"And yourself?" Phasma addresses the question to Bazine, who frowns.

"I saw such a droid pass through the castle. I can take you to where I saw it last."

Phasma considers. "Alright. Lead the way. Sir, please carry on with your business."

Grummgar grunts. "I'm coming with. If this does come down to a bounty, I want to bid."

Phasma does not know how she will separate Bazine and Grummgar, but from the look in her eyes, it is evident that Bazine is wondering the same thing. The spy inclines her jaw with a degree of professional pride, even arrogance, but some sort of fear swims beneath. How did these two end up together? How long has Bazine been looking for an opportunity to extract?

The march to the castle is awkward. It becomes more awkward when, ten meters from the courtyard, Phasma gets a message: _Recovered map & detained insurgent operative. Resistance nearby. Pull out. -KR_

It is now immediately imperative for Phasma to make a decision. She finds it is easier than expected. There is no need to throw Bazine over her shoulder, to carry her back to the Finalizer and lock her in a dirty cage. Phasma glances at the Dowutin, whose long strides dwarf the two of them as he heaves ahead, toward the castle.

Bazine has made her own prison. It is filthy enough, and Phasma will leave her to it.

"So. In the palm of your hand, you said?" Phasma asks, casually. Bazine looks confused for a moment, then apprehension dawns, indicating memory of the earlier conversation.

Phasma halts and leans close to Bazine. Not too close. Close enough to speak quietly. "I suggest you make a fist."

At this moment, the sky clouds with Fighter ships: Resistance X-Wings, mostly, though the Order is mustering a response. Phasma waves to Grummgar, then points to her comm to indicate the message received. "I have what I need," the Captain barks, "and I have to depart. You two can find your way back to your ship." Of course, if Phasma's calculations are correct, they will do no such thing. The Resistance is making an aggressive approach from the south and, likely as not, taking prisoners.

Grummgar clicks his pincers a few times. "Whatever you say, Captain," he growls. He gestures at Bazine, then turns his heft in the direction of the landing stage.

Bazine's sudden panic is evident. "Wait!" she calls. Phasma remembers her calling out, just like that, once before. Some heat flushes across Phasma's skin. It could be arousal. It could be rage.

"I can get you the droid you're looking for," Bazine pledges. She's speaking softly but making no effort to hide her desperation. "I promise. No more games."

"We have the map," Phasma says, coolly. "And your promises mean nothing." With Phasma's own conscience--and the voice of the Order, ever her guide--humming silent approval at this sentiment, Phasma stalks north toward the castle. She leaves Bazine to play her games and recuperate her poisonous lifestyle. If she can. _Not everyone,_ Phasma thinks, _can get up off the dirt._


End file.
